


Take Your Time, Think a Lot

by SetAblaze



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-14 20:37:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14776859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SetAblaze/pseuds/SetAblaze
Summary: The night was hot and he could not sleep.“Kost, imekari. Maraas shokra. Kost esaam asaaranda.”-Just a bunch of short chapters that make up a decent length oneshot I've been writing about Iron Bull, his relationships with Dorian and his tama, and watching thunderstorms.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Named after Cat Stevens' song, Father and Son, and prompted by this wonderful image by pascal campion ( http://pascalcampion.tumblr.com/post/173815585492/its-a-hot-night-and-i-cant-sleep-pascalcampion ). What can I say, I was listening to Cat Stevens and scrolling through tumblr, the fic just seemed to write itself. 
> 
> This was meant to be posted as a oneshot, but seeing as I'm still working on Lavina and a lot of this needed editing, I thought I would post small chapters at more regular intervals whilst I worked on Lavina's third chapter.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

The night was hot and he could not sleep.

In the dark of the resting sky, a burst of light had flashed across the heavens and was shortly followed by a great rumble. It had woken little Ashkaari from his slumber, and he cowered in his cot at the loud and bright intrusion; clutching the bedsheets with the tightest grasp he could muster, feeling its texture under clenched and stubby fingers. The smooth fabric bowed to him, scrunching ever so much in those hands he possessed. They were growing, those tiny little hands; oh yes, they were. With each passing day, time was changing little Ashkaari; and it was making him big, making him strong.

But the little thinker was still just an imekari; a child, a little one. The lights were too fast, too bright in the dark of bedtime. The windows were closed but the bursts and flares snuck past the gaps in the shutters and were lighting up the trembling grey of Ashkaari’s arms. At the sight of his own goosebumps, he tried to do what was instructed of him, tried to be like Imekari-saam in the story he was told that day; something and content.

He began to take slow breaths, big and deep - _that’s right, until your lungs can’t hold it_ \- in through the nose; and calm and even - _as if you’re blowing on your food to cool it down -_ out through the mouth. He was doing so well, so very well; what a good imekari he was. Behind closed eyes the lights had begun to scare him no more, and his racing heart was soon to be at peace.

Contentment was within his reach, the lull of rest ready to take him in again, when the sky flashed brighter, and the rumble turned louder. The noise was sudden, not a growing omen but a crashing roar, and it shook the walls of Ashkaari’s mind with a startling _boom!_

Little Ashkaari gasped at the ambush and began to whimper in his lonesome bed as more lights and noise arrived. It didn’t matter that he was becoming bigger, becoming stronger, because right then he felt the opposite of Imekari-saam. He grew a whole centimetre that last week, but the light was in the sky, that was too great a height for him to reach. He could yell very loud, Vasaad - his friend who already had received his title - had told him he had the best battle cry out of all the other imekari. But the sky was yelling louder, and that meant it was so much stronger.

He imagined he was like Imekari-raas. He was not something, he was a small and scared nothing. He was not certain, he was not dangerous either; but if the sky continued to disrupt his contentment, he would be. He would become Imesaar-bas, _a grey one_ , lost to the Qun. That was a scarier thing than the monsters outside. Little Ashkaari didn’t want to become dangerous, he wanted to be enlightened and sure in the Qun with his friends and make Tama proud.

At the thought that he might never be able to live as he should under the Qun, poor Ashkaari wept. It was such a heartbreaking sound, that so young and small a person felt that much fear. So, it was no surprise that his designated tamassran, Ashkaari’s wise Tama, was quick to find him whilst checking up on the rest of her imekari.

“Such big tears, my little thinker”, she cooed as she came to him, bending down to scoop him up into her arms. She grunted at the strain of his weight, because really, her little Ashkaari was getting to be so big after that last growth spurt of his.

“Tama…”, he sobbed, his nose beginning to run as he held on tight.

She rocked him from side to side, gently so that she did not lose her balance. Ashkaari’s growing horns pushed uncomfortably into her neck as he nuzzled into her chest, but the honoured tamassran paid it no mind. The little one was her charge, and she would tend to him just as she had been, so many years ago.

“It is a storm, little one”, she said, “It will not harm you.”

Ashkaari shook his head, “It is a demon, Tama”, he replied.

At the sight of his quivering, the wise tamassran chuckled, “Oh, little thinker”, she said, patting her hand atop the tight cloudy curls of his dark hair.

He was getting to be mighty heavy in her arms where she stood, so the tamassran placed him back in his cot; one he would soon outgrow. She knelt beside it, so that she was still in reach, but not putting strain on the bedframe.

“The asaaranda is nothing to be feared”, she continued, “It is to be celebrated, worthy of great respect.”

Little Ashkaari frowned, for he did not understand.

“This storm will be the first of many”, she explained, “It is the start of the great rains, the turning of seasonal tides”, with calloused fingers she traced the base of his horns, soothing the sensitive skin there, “Look how the sky lights up for you; when it strikes, do you not see how it chases all the shadows away?”

Another flash of lightning struck, and after a few moments, the sound of thunder bellowed.

“Hear the thunder scare the nightmares away?”, she asks.

Little Ashkaari stilled from his shaking, and paused, “I don’t know, I think so”, he replied softly.

“Good”, she said just as softly back. She looked into his eyes, like looking at algae through clear waters, and smiled, “Now, little one, might you try to get some sleep?”

Ashkaari nodded, perhaps a little uncertain, and yet he still told her, “Goodnight, Tama.”

“Goodnight”, Tama said at last, getting up to stand. With her hand still in little Ashkaari’s hair, she added, “ _Kost, imekari. Maraas shokra. Kost esaam asaaranda_.”

Ashkaari would remember that, even though he was close to sleep when he heard it.


	2. Chapter 2

The smell of rot hung heavy and thick in the Fallow Mire, the scent making everyone sick to the stomach. Even without the undead clawing their way through the mud, the effect of decay was woven into the vast stretch of bog and swamp with every blackened tree and mangey clump of moss.

The Iron Bull rolled away from the corpse that pursued him, the unplanned spontaneity of the move making his back hit the coarse stone of the beacon with a hard thump. He grunted as the pillar, rough and abrasive, scraped across the wide expanse of uncovered skin, causing his shoulder blades to sting in the cold, wet air. He had ducked away from the dulled blade just in time, but that pain - however little - distracted him, tricked him into inaction for a second too long. It was natural for living things to react to pain, to hiss and groan and cry out at wounds; but that mortal reflex was also a failing in the storm of battle, a weakness and an opening to be exploited if indulged for too long.

Too late the qunari realised his mistake when the _shitting demon_ inside the deceased vessel revealed its triumph with a shredding scream bursting out of its putrid maw. The noise had caused the scum inside its gut to splutter out past its cut and torn lips in near frothing scraps, and the small gooey clumps littered across the dampened soil.

“Shit!”, cried Bull as the carcass quickly shambled towards him.

It bounded over the stone and muck in quasi-graceful leaps, uncaring of how its feet landed in twisted and distorted angles. It swept its arms high and wide as it raised its tarnished sword, charging with a speed that would make a druffalo envious. So focused was the corpse on Bull, it knocked over one of its undead allies, sending it running right onto the end of Dorian’s staff blade. The mage turned around, searching for the source of the impact that shook through the magical conduit, and caught sight of his companion.

“Bull!”, he shouted, panicked but forced to stay put as he was quickly set upon by another cadaver.

The undead reached Bull then, its shriek piercing and joining the other monsters around in a horrific chorus. Bull took hold of the haft of his hammer in both calloused hands, holding it out as he braced for the impact.

He kicked out his legs as it went to swing down its rusted weapon. Rather than push it away, it forced the creature upwards, legs swinging as its sunken torso balanced upon Bull’s feet and shins and having the sword make contact with the beacon’s stone above Bull’s head. It broke, the iron so worn down by the water that it crumbled like sandstone as it ground into the granite. Pieces of the shattered blade fell flat upon the Iron Bull’s head, little crumbs of the oxidised ore bouncing off his horns and rolling off his biceps in flakes of russet and ochre as the warrior tried to fight off the wielder.

He was pinned, the undead fighter with all its demonic strength and fury was bearing down, pressing into his bulk like a dead weight.

“Little help!”, he yelled, straining to get the rotting mess up and off of him. It wasn’t a large body it possessed, although the ears had rotted away Bull believed the small body once belonged to a human, elf-blooded perhaps. So, _fuck,_ why was the damn thing so heavy?

Robbed of its sword, the corpse relied on its own bony fingers to do the dirty work. Lacking flesh upon the thin appendages, its fingers acted as claws lashing towards Bull’s upper body, likely in an attempt to rip out his throat. The rain started to gain and began to run down the corpse’s rotting skin, the clear water dripping off the creature’s chin and onto the Bull’s brow in hefty splats. With a heave, he gave it a hard jab to the jaw with his pommel, dislocating it with a satisfying snap.

It made the cadaver cry out crackling and clicking groans of frustration, oblivious to sensations of pain but vulnerable all the same to annoyance. Its jaw swung loose in its skin, the jostling of the dislodged bone sending water drops straight into his eye.

It burned, the sheer chill of the liquid a cold searing sensation that clouded his only means to see. In the confusion, Bull slipped further down the pillar, and it grazed the skin across the back of his shoulders even more so as he laid near flat upon the ground. It forced the creature head first into the pillar, its face pressing firm against carved rock. It was awkward but no less dangerous, the undead finally able to scratch at the prominent bridge of his nose and along his cheekbones in sharp nicks.

He turned his blind side to the creature, at least then it didn’t have anything to gouge out. He blinked through the moisture, the fog upon his eye lifting slightly as he spots Dorian’s boots stomp towards him, deepstalker hide and pale silk. Smudged kohl and drenched locks sticking to his brow, the mage’s eyes shone out from their dark frame like burning ash; hot and white; in the embers of a dying fire. The Iron Bull felt well and truly pinned by that glare, more so than the enemy that caught its nails upon the edge of his eyepatch.

His companion looks calculated and calm as he looks to Bull, his focus upon the man as soft and ominous as smoke.

“Apologies, Iron Bull”, he said, “But this is going to hurt.”

Bull grunted affirmably, giving a sharp nod.

It was all the permission Dorian needed. He stretched out his hand and let sparks dance upon it, the sight making Bull tense for the oncoming onslaught. It didn’t take much to make it happen. He just clenched his fist, and lightning came.

A single bolt in a brilliant shock of white, struck down upon the creature. It landed in heavy silence, the thunderous boom late to call its warning. Though it targeted the corpse most, Bull saw small tendrils of electrical light reach out to him as well. Like a tree growing planted mid-air, it branched out as its roots desperately searched for soil. The branches danced across his forearms and immediately summoned the searing pain Bull expected, the burns blooming in delicate patterns of pink and white, like gentle brushstrokes painted cuts upon his skin.

It took away his breath with a suckerpunch, sending his diaphragm fluttering beneath his chest. At the lack of air, the pain only grew, as if the lightning’s roots were feeding off every bit of oxygen and flesh he had to offer, like he was fertile earth to be tilled.

He can’t remember turning his head, but his eyes landed on Dorian all the same. The mage’s expression was just as tight and controlled as before, and Bull thinks that perhaps time hasn’t even passed at all, as he hadn’t even heard the spell make noise.

_Vashedan_ , Bull thought, _so this is what it’s like being caught in a storm._

He felt the last of the magic melt through him, boiling past his veins and into the ground it so dreadfully sought. Dorian grinned, his smile a dark and _honestly creepy_ thing. He withdrew his hand and with his staff sent a ball of blazing, burning, scorching light towards Bull’s foe. It hit it straight on the chest, sending the thing reeling off and away from Bull with upset moans and clacks.

“Take that, you filth!”, Dorian bit out as the corpse began crumpling into ashes, skin dripping like melted metal onto its feet.

Bull felt air surge into his lungs again in uncomfortable yet gladly welcomed relief. He rolled onto his front and made to stand, puffing a little as he got up.

Dorian walked up to him, hair mussed from wind and rain but otherwise in good form; _very good form,_ Bull amended _._

“That was certainly bracing, wasn’t it?”, said Dorian, inspecting the dirt trapped under his nails.

“Mmhm”, Bull grunted, watching Cole and the Inquisitor to the left of them corner the lesser terror against a boulder, “Nice going with the magic,” he said, “the fire was a nice touch.”

Dorian scoffed, rolling his eyes as Lavellan slashed her spirit blade through the demon’s leg, sending it toppling down to the ground, “Let’s just save the praise of my wonderful abilities until you’re healed, alright? It’s most unpolite to brag when you’ve left someone injured.”

Bull saw the man give worried looks to his arms, and it made him chuckle, his voice raspy from exertion and barely heard as the terror let out a last screech, the noise gurgling as Cole sent his daggers into its throat, “Nah, you’re fine vint”, he said, looking at the swirls and branch-like marks across his biceps with great appreciation, “Besides, it’ll be badass if it scars.”

“Typical”, said Dorian, scoffing again. His breath plummed out in a draconic puff of mist as he huffed. _Nice,_ thought Bull, as they joined up with the others.

Lavellan took one look at his back and ordered him to rest at camp in the Old Thoroughfare. Blackwall took his place in the party, and he got salves for the lightning marks and a poultice for his back. It sadly wouldn’t scar.

_Yeah,_ Bull thought again, sat in his bedroll and distracted from Ben-Hassrath reports, taken with the image of Dorian smiling and shrouded by his magical tempest, _Really nice_.

Outside, thunder began to rumble in the distance.

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone not familiar with any of the Qunlat or other Qunari references, I've listed them down:
> 
> Imekari-saam, and Imekari-raas (who is later Imesaar-bas) are characters in, "The Tale of Imekari-saam and Imekari-raas (Child Something and Child Nothing)", a children's fable from Kont-aar that is popular throughout Rivain. If you want to read the story to get a better idea, I put it in a post on Tumblr: https://labhra-setablaze.tumblr.com/post/174335119977/excerpt-from-world-of-thedas-vol-ii
> 
> Ashkaari: "one who seeks" or more appropriately in The Iron Bull's case, "one who thinks". It is the title given to scientists and philosophers, or otherwise enlightened individuals under the Qun. Ashkaari Koslun, the founder of the Qun, used this title. In other words: Tama gave Bull a nickname that boasted how clever he was, if that's not a staple of good parenting I don't know what is.
> 
> Imekari: Child
> 
> Vasaad: a childhood friend of The Iron Bull, who died in Seheron. He is referenced in Bull's party banter with Cole and in World of Thedas Volume 2. 
> 
> Tamassran: "Those who speak." A priestess who is charged with educating the young, interviewing captives, and assigning Qunari their roles within society. Exclusively a role for women. 
> 
> Asaaranda: Thunderstorm
> 
> Kost, imekari. Maraas shokra. Kost esaam asaaranda: my butchered attempt at Qunlat that should translate to "Peace, child. There is nothing to struggle against. Peace is in the storm."


End file.
